“Hey Girl”: A Letter to Holly Petraeus

Listen. No one is going to tell you this week didn’t suck. This week sucked. The fact that your husband had an affair with his much-younger biographer sucked. The fact that her name is “Paula” sucks. What the hell kind of name is “Paula”? Is she a friend of your mother’s from the 1960s? The fact that she appears to be some sort of ur-mistress nightmare—prom queen, valedictorian, good-shoulders-haver who “favored sleeveless outfits that showed off toned, muscular arms”—totally sucks. The fact that she married a radiologist—the anti-doctor’s doctor—also sucks. No one is going to tell you otherwise.

You can’t change the fact that your husband slept, and exchanged sexually explicit e-mails with, his 40-year-old married colleague, but you can start loving you again.

Consider your cheating scumbag husband. While we initially thought he was borderline-kind-of-hot in a toothy, professorial way, his hollow cheeks, big ears, and triangle mouth make him look like an impotent cartoon. Mmhmm. Girl, you don’t have to tell us. You can, and will, do much better. For example, a man who declines to wear an eggplant-colored tie on official government-employee portrait day. Girl, it’s O.K. to laugh. Laugh. Laugh like you used to, Holly.

While you work this stuff out of your system, go do something for you. We hear you are “furious” and “not exactly pleased.” The last time we were furious and not exactly pleased with our man, we watched 15 episodes of Felicity and ate, like, three avocados. It worked wonders. Is David a Noel or a Blair? Season One? Think about it. Time’s up, girlfriend: he’s a Blair. You’re saying you’re this upset over a Blair? Eat another avocado and think on it.